


Not A Gun

by twinagonies



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Slash, The Iron Giant, slight recovery fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinagonies/pseuds/twinagonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky watches The Iron Giant. Everyone is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Gun

Steve walked into his apartment to find Natasha, Bruce, and Clint crowded around the island in his kitchen. All were watching Bucky, who was sitting on the couch watching some animated film Steve had not yet seen. He was confused—their attention was too focused. This was weird. Was it weird? It felt weird.

Steve was tired. Tired in a strictly physical sense, from a day that started with a marathon and ended with wrestling a robot Tony had lost momentary control of. Tired in other ways, too.

“What brings all of you to my floor,” he tried for light humor. Whenever he did this, he always reflected a moment later—I’m not very funny. He pursed his lips in annoyance. 

And received no response as they continued staring at Bucky, who was still watching the film. 

“Hey, guys, what are you doing here?” he tried the direct approach. He looked at each of them intently—normally the force of his Captain face could bring their attention, but no luck today. He tapped on the marble counter with a finger while he waited.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” His voice on the edge of pleading. Not mature enough not to, he elbowed Bruce. 

“Hey, Cap,” Bruce said, without turning.

“Bruce. Something happen with Bucky?”

“Not yet.” His voice mild.

“Yet?” Oh but, his voice was a tad shrill. No one seemed to notice, however, which on second thought was more troubling than comforting.

He touched Natasha on the arm, and when she turned, he gave her his biggest eyes in his most sincere face. She was a secret sucker for his earnest face, he thought.

“Steve.” She kept Bucky within her sight as she sat back in her chair. “We’re a bit concerned about this movie choice.” She was fighting a smile, but her body was tense. Steve repressed the urge to let his head fall back and sigh. What the hell.

“The movie.” Steve repeated, unimpressed. He looked at the screen with a furrowed brow. “It’s a kid’s movie, right?”

“It’s not a movie—it’s a traumatic experience,” Barton said without looking away. 

The more evasive they were, the more impatient he became. “Ok, I’m going to need a coherent explanation soon. For why you’re camped out in my kitchen, watching Bucky like he’s about to—”

“The Iron Giant,” Bruce said. “It’s a good movie, just—it could hit him close to home?” Bruce screwed up his mouth as his voice rose in a question. He shrugged and failed at a smile. 

“It’s a sad futz of a movie,” Barton said. On another glance, he wasn’t watching Bucky at all, but the movie itself. He looked downright miserable, when it came down to it. 

“Tony recommended it, and we’re of the collective opinion that it might not have been the best choice.” Natasha’s voice was dry as always, and he couldn’t get a good read off her mood. Scared and amused were essentially interchangeable, so usually he relied on context. The context didn’t help here.

“However, I think we’re at the end, so,” she looked at him and shrugged with a wry gleam in her eye, “might have been wrong.”

Steve turned to the screen, where a screw fell off a windowsill and rolled itself through green fields of grass. That seemed nice. A small part of him wondered if this was an elaborate joke, but it wasn’t quite…weird enough. Or it was too weird, but in a mundane, banal way that he didn’t understand. Either way, he felt off-kilter. 

The credits rolled, and Bucky stood, quickly, suddenly. His colleagues tensed around him—I guess it wasn’t a joke?—but Bucky stretched and walked around the couch into the kitchen. No one said a word, not as he pulled out their jug of milk and chugged it down. He replaced the cap and stuck it back in the fridge.

He stretched some more, arms above his head, then bending straight over and letting them hang. He stood upright, and shook his limbs out, like a dog shaking water out of its fur. He was beautiful like this—casual sweats, low ponytail, rested and healthy. And maybe it was wishful thinking on Steve’s part, but well, he seemed more relaxed than Steve had seen him since—since before. A beautiful thought, and a beautiful man. Steve was too happy to even be embarrassed as he watched, as he delighted in the sight of his friend.

Bucky smiled at him, small and close-lipped. He looked happy, at least marginally so, and Steve would take any breadcrumbs he could find. “Steve.”

“Hey Buck. How was the movie?” And jeez, at least Natasha didn’t noticeably flinch, which he couldn’t say for Barton and Banner. How the hell had Clint ever been a spy, was a question Steve never expected the answer to.

Bucky lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “It was nice.”

“Yeah? You think I would like it?” Steve’s eyes kept darting towards the awkward trio at the end of the island. They were silent, and not comfortably so. At this point, he wanted them the hell out of their floor. They were—awkward. And weird. This was weird, right? 

But Bucky was looking at him, intently, gaze resting on Steve’s face even as thoughts he had no access to flew through Bucky’s mind. He was—assessing. His eyebrows gathered together for a moment, and released. His eyes, always hard these days, softened incrementally. After studying Steve for a good while, with Steve attempting to radiate calm and acceptance and not be weird about their mild staring contest, Bucky replied. “What are you doing now?” Bucky’s face was serious, more so than usual.

Steve stammered and shook his head and smiled, less out of happiness than out of reflex. “Um, nothing?” So unsure, always unsure these days.

“Let’s watch it now.” Behind Bucky, the awkward triplets made simultaneous faces of grotesque surprise—Natasha of sheer disbelief, her chin jutting out in an outright frown; Bruce with mouth open but eyes narrowed in confusion; Clint simply mouthing what the futz and gesturing with both hands wide open before letting his face fall to his palm. Steve tried not to look. They could always leave.

“You would like that? You want to?” Steve couldn’t get his mind together. He wanted to ask something more articulate—you just watched it, are you sure you want to watch it again, is this for my benefit, why are you doing this, is it to spend time with me, all I want it to know what’s inside your head—but, however, that’s what came out.

And Bucky just nodded and raised his eyebrows and said “Yeah” like Steve was a little bit of an idiot.

“Ok,” was all he managed in return.

Bucky having gone to restart the movie, Natasha stood up and said, dry as a desert, “well, you seem to have this handled. Enjoy the movie, Cap.”

“Wait—I still don’t get what your concern was?” His voice rose dramatically at the end, certainly undignified.

But they all walked out of the kitchen, with Clint slapping him on the back as he passed. “Good luck with the movie, man,” was all he said, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“We probably overreacted,” Bruce smiled and scurried away.

“Get some food,” Bucky called from the couch.

He didn’t get them at all.

+

And so of course, at the end of the film, he was a shuddering, crying mess who was attempting to neither shudder nor cry, at least not openly, on the couch he shared with his dead-eyed, utterly still best friend. Who only moved to eat a handful of cheese and caramel popcorn. Together.

And he can’t even look at Bucky. He’s holding onto himself so tight, nails digging into his skin, teeth on his bottom lip, any sharp pain he can get to without moving. It hurts—I’m not a gun—and steadies him, and gives him what little fortitude he needs not to just come apart there on the sofa, crying over the pain someone else has endured. And God, it’s just too beautiful in a way, but too familiar—flashbacks to the plane, diving into the ocean—and he wants to escape, to run away, even just walk to him room and shut the door and cry into his pillow for the few minutes it would take to get it out. And walk out and pretend it was nothing. But he can’t—can’t move, can’t speak, can’t look.

He grips the bridge of his nose with two fingers, hard, and he can feel the pressures throughout his face. He takes a shaky breath and lets it out, slowly and softly. Bucky’s intent on the film yet again, and there are too many things that he can’t say. 

“Steve?” He hears Bucky’s voice with just a hint of concern. “Steve, what’s wrong?”

He can’t say a word.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky is moving, twitching, tapping his fingers together. There’s a space between them on the couch, and it feels infinite, but somehow the immense distance is overcome when Bucky slides over just next to him. Steve can feel the tension in Bucky’s thigh where it’s pressed against his. 

He’s trying, trying so hard not to cry. The weight on his chest won’t let up, and seems to grow heavier with each passing moment. 

“Steve,” he hears again, Bucky’s breath stirring the hairs behind his ear. He feels a hand curl around his arm, and the touch, the pressure, the sensation of it breaks the dam inside of him, and the tears are overflowing from his eyes. Every time he tries to stop, he sees the giant in his mind’s eye, conviction on its metal face, ready to die. And it hurts, hurts deep. He takes hard, shaky breaths, nearly sobs, and stares ahead at nothing. The hand curled around his elbow doesn’t move; the leg pressed against him doesn’t let up. He feels Bucky’s eyes on him, and he looks at nothing.

The tears cease, eventually. His breath resumes its normal pace. His muscles, all tensed and clenched, start to relax. And it washes out of him, all the pain and sadness, and he’s left empty but relieved. He heaves a sigh, big and deep, holding all the remnants of his attack, and he’s left loose-limbed and almost happy with the absence of pain. His head falls back against the back of the couch.

“You alright, Stevie,” Bucky says. The nickname nearly makes him cry again.

“Yeah, Bucky, I’m alright.”

Steve feels Bucky’s fingers twitching and tapping on the inside of his arm. Bucky’s still, placid face reveals nothing, but his eyes dart from his lap up to Steve’s face, back and forth.

“He comes back, you know,” and Bucky is nodding, a quick jerk of a motion, “that’s the ending. It’s all fine in the end.”

Steve turns to look at his friend, and sees the nerves and anticipation buried under the dead-eyed stare. He feels a moment of shame, a pang in his chest, for somehow making this about him when Bucky wanted—wanted this to be about Bucky, wanted to tell him something. 

“Yeah? He’s gonna come home?” Steve doesn’t know if that’s the right question, hasn’t know the right question the whole time Bucky’s been back. But he tries, and knows that the bridge between them must be built from both ends. He’s rewarded by Bucky’s vehement nods and a never-ending stare directly into his eyes. The hand on his arm doesn’t leave, and a little part of him is so glad from the closeness, wants to get closer, press them together forever.

“He comes home,” Bucky says. “He’ll always come home.”

“Promise?” He hears himself ask, and hates himself a little.

But Bucky slides his hand up Steve’s arm and holds the back of Steve’s neck, grips it tight and secure, and responds. “Promise.” 

It’s enough.


End file.
